


I can see the sun light up the sky

by nakamaRose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottling up your Emotions, Boys In Love, Established Relationship, M/M, Panic Attacks, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25297834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakamaRose/pseuds/nakamaRose
Summary: It's been a while, and here I am spewing angst :') ah well (I also wrote this all out in a single sitting because well. . .feelings and writing can be therapeutic at times for me so, there's bound to be something that doesn't quite sound right, so forgive me for that)There's a mess of Crowley being bombarded by some of what went on in the show and my stylistic interpretation(mixed in with my own experiences), so I do apologize if this is upsetting to anyone who reads this. Let me know so I can adjust this!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 39





	I can see the sun light up the sky

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while, and here I am spewing angst :') ah well (I also wrote this all out in a single sitting because well. . .feelings and writing can be therapeutic at times for me so, there's bound to be something that doesn't quite sound right, so forgive me for that)
> 
> There's a mess of Crowley being bombarded by some of what went on in the show and my stylistic interpretation(mixed in with my own experiences), so I do apologize if this is upsetting to anyone who reads this. Let me know so I can adjust this!

Crowley finally breaks one chilly winter morning.

The moments leading up to this weren’t too alarming—although if Aziraphale had looked harder he would have noticed the slight tremor in every exhale, the way a molten gold gaze would stare off just a tad bit longer than intended—and so it went largely missed.

After the world didn’t come to a catastrophic conclusion, the pair had decided to leave the city of London behind and take up residence in a seaside town in the South Downs. The decision came a week after Armageddon was foiled, during a cool summer morning over hot coffee and pastries filled with Bavarian cream. Moving away was what it was initially presented as, something that would benefit the both of them—because this is how Aziraphale had rationalized it instead of blatantly expressing his overwhelming desire to simply be with Crowley now that they were truly on their own— and the Demon had agreed without a second thought.

No longer having to send in reports and keep up appearances was exhilarating and gave Crowley just enough gusto to accept Aziraphale’s proposal no questions asked.

Well. . . _almost_ no questions were asked.

The part about _where_ they were to move to was talked at length—should they head off to Paris? Aziraphale truly loved the cuisine there, particularly the wonderfully aged red wines and sinfully decadent crepes, but then Crowley wanted to move somewhere with less people all together because as much as he enjoyed humans, he was quite done for the time being— and often ended in the two of them throwing a fit with one another.

Bickering, it seemed, transcended saving the entire human race.

When they did come to a consensus, it was to obtain a small cottage out in an equally small village near the roaring waters of the ocean. They collected their belongings and set about to something entirely brand new with the promise of infinite possibilities.

Now that Crowley looks back on it, as he throws the covers off his body and slinks out of bed near a loudly snoring Angel, he really should have been more wary of exactly what possibilities they’d be experiencing.

Crowley pads down the stairs in bare feet, the gentle give of the wood is the only sound which permeates around the otherwise darkened cottage. The chill of the early hour morning sneaks in and nibbles at the tips of his fingers and heel of his feet as the Demon rounds the corner and enters their cozy study. It’s simple really—there’s a large dark brown oak desk near the corner closest to the threshold that’s stacked and covered with Aziraphale’s books and various notes, there’s two large and looming bookshelves packed impeccably well despite it appearing as though the wood the shelves are made of are fit to burst—and right in the center, there’s a small red bricked fireplace. The Demon goes to pick up a bit of wood they’ve collected and stacked neatly in a small wooden box and stacks them neatly before wiping his hands to rid them of the extra bits of bark.

He bends his tall, slim body down, reaches an equally slender hand out to hover over the logs and— _suddenly he’s hot, burning all over with soot covering his face and smoke filling his lungs. He’s crying out, panic and despair filling him entirely and making his head spin, is he going to faint?_ — and then he’s dropped to one knee in front of the unlit hearth.

A shiver starts from the base of his spine and spreads up to his outstretched arm, his fingers reflexively twitching and soon he drops to his other knee.

Crowley stares at his shaking arm, something gripping and crushing his chest and he rigidly brings his free hand up to tangle in the fabric of his black silk pajama top.

It suddenly feels hot despite the fire being unlit, but Crowley feels like his face has been pressed up against a hot sheet of glass. His golden eyes are slightly narrowed and glassy and he slowly blinks and then keeps his eyes shut.

But then. . .

_Then he’s suddenly blazing through what should have been an impenetrable wall of demonic flame. He’s breathing comes in rapid, short pants as he lets loose a high-pitched yell. His heart hammers against his ribcage, is it going to break through? There’s no shaded tint to the world he’s seeing. It’s laid out bare for him to witness and he tries to desperately keep it all together. But occasionally his precious car creaks and moans and it snaps him back from his manic high long enough to feel the full brunt of the heat and smoke that he nearly lets go of the steering wheel. . . But he can’t. . .he can’t let this happen. . .can’t let this go, not without telling Aziraphale that he’s in lo—_

And suddenly there’s a loud whoosh, a blast of fierce heat lashing out and slapping Crowley in the face. The force is enough to knock him onto his ass and cause him to crack out a small yelp in surprise. His eyes snap open and he pushes himself up into a seated position on the floor, fingers digging into the soft Persian rug beneath him.

The fire lively crackles and snaps, the tall tendrils climbing high and standing tall as they devour the fuel Crowley provided them with. And though heat fills the room, the Demon suddenly feels a chill take hold of him so deeply that he almost feels as if its eating away at his bones and he’s just—

_Staring up at a large whirlwind pillar of hellfire, it hisses and growls down at him, demanding his entire being be sacrificed. And his own type of fire brews within him and he sets cold, steely eyes on the lot that have the gall to call themselves angles. They’re not, they’re not anything like what an angel should be. Crowley knows what it is to be angel, he’s seen it and learned it repeatedly from Aziraphale. The ones left up in Heaven haven’t a clue as to what goes on down on Earth and just how much he and Aziraphale are willing to go in order to escape the shackles they’d been weighed down with. And so he steps in defiantly and lets the wash of hot, hot, hot air consume him and he feels a heavy shake wrack his body as he lets out a breath he doesn’t need to and tries not to picture the Angel being torn away from him and burned to absolute oblivi_ —

Crowley doubles over, hands flying up to tangle in his cropped hair, takes in three rapid breaths as he feels an all-consuming wash of dread beat down on him.

The wail is what snaps Aziraphale out of his deep slumber. He snaps upright in bed and blearily fumbles with the sheets as he disentangles himself. Again, the sharp cry sounds and as his eyes adjust to the darkness of his room, he notices the empty space beside him and his heart jumps to his throat.

He tosses a plush robe over his body, tying a sloppy knot as he quickly takes the stairs down to the main floor. His eyes spot the odd light dripping from their study—the way its light casts long and menacing shadows into the rest of their sanctuary. Aziraphale finds Crowley crumpled on the floor, body shaking violently and breathing coming in high and spark wheezes.

“Crowley!”, the Angel cries and rushes to the Demon’s side, arms flailing about in hesitation as he tentatively calls out the name he’s known for thousands of years.

“Crowley, my dear, are you—”

But then Crowley is whirling around, body moving too quick even for Aziraphale to counter, and feels his back hit the ground. He lets out a grunt of pain, squinting up at Crowley whose hot hands feel like they’re marking his wrists.

And wait, hasn’t Crowley been normally colder? Cold-blooded as the animal he used to turn into all those years ago. . . But now, as Aziraphale looked up into fully yellow, reptilian eyes that seemed to burn with a crazed fire that would smother them both if not for the way Crowley’s body seemed to continue to shake and nearly cause him to collapse atop him.

Cautiously, Aziraphale shifts, and Crowley suddenly makes a garbled noise deep in his throat, face scrunching up in a gruesome manner and let’s go slightly. The Angel takes the momentary slack grip to take his right hand and cup the side of Crowley’s pained face.

Aziraphale’s mouth opens—because he intends to say something, _anything_ really because he’s never seen Crowley quite so. . .so. . . _feral_ before and the very _idea_ of it crossing his mind is enough to make the Angel feel sick—but no sound escapes because he’s hit with a feverish heat that nearly robs him of all sense.

He feels incredibly, unbearably _hot_ , the very nature of it digging its claws into him and eliciting a sharp inhale. There’s a loud rush of sound bouncing around him—snippets of conversations he’s unable to identify the words to, but they sound low and menacing, and then its snuffed out with a loud moan and high pitched snap followed quickly by an incessant headache that tears it way down half his face—and then the heat consumes him again. It beats down mercilessly against him, threatening destruction but then Aziraphale senses an odd undercurrent of, _please, please, please, I don’t want—I can’t fight—please. . ._

And then there’s a sinking pit eating away at his stomach and it starts to click for Aziraphale. He trudges forward, deeper, tries to find the smallest bit of the Demon he can latch onto. Aziraphale fights against the onslaught of rising fear and panic, pushes back as he begins to hear the fledgling taunts of his former boss whisper into his ears, though it does give him pause.

Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, Aziraphale stumbles upon a prone figure. Long limbs splayed out with eyes open to stared dazedly upwards. The Angel rushes once more towards Crowley, kneels before him and tentatively reaches out to pick the upper half of his body up. In this singular moment, the heat from the Demon’s body has disappeared, leaving instead a cool surface. But when relief flutters to the surface it quickly becomes dashed as the tips of his fingers begin to painfully prickle and tingle.

_Too cold_ , he thinks, _far too cold_.

“Angel. . .”

And he’s brought back down to the Demon. A Demon whose eyes clear ever so slightly upon uttering the nickname.

“Crowley, my dear, I’m here now, it will be all right”.

The Demon’s eyes narrow slightly, his chest rising and falling in achingly slow intervals, and then they slip close. In panic, Aziraphale jolts about, making Crowley groan low and deep almost as if he were growling. He stills, bringing his free hand up to lightly card through his ginger hair, trying to soothe the tired soul he held.

“Dearest,” Aziraphale breathes and low rumbles passes up from Crowley’s chest and up and out of his mouth, “please,” the Angel continues, “I’m here now”.

Crowley’s eyes flicker back open, corner of his lips quirking up into a weak approximation of his signature smirk. “What a right mess this is,” the Demon quips hoarsely, “my own— “, a grimace here as Crowley arches his back as if in pain, “worst nightmares come to light. . .pathetic. . .”

“No,” Aziraphale quickly answers and it causes Crowley to drag a brow up in slow bewilderment. He swallows thickly, his own tendrils of discontent rushing back across him and tugging at him. “No,” he repeats himself, and then, “I will bring us back, hold still”.

And it all blurs together—the past six thousand years become a smattered painting with colors and shapes melding into one another, emotions bleeding one into the next—it all starts to be too much and just as Aziraphale fears he’s going to drown them both, he breaches the surface and takes in a shuddering gulp of air.

Crowley’s body above him is shaking, less uncontrollably now, and his head is bowed.

“Crowley. . .”, Aziraphale calls out into the silence filled only with ragged breathing. Said Demon rises his head, eyes still reptilian of course but less wild and crazy and whiter around the edges. There’s a rush of precarious breath—a sigh perhaps or tired laughter dying near the end—and then Crowley’s arms give out and he crumbles onto Aziraphale.

He lets them lie there for a few moments, rests his hands-on Crowley’s back and silently keeps time on the Demon’s slowly beating heart. Aziraphale watches as the shadows of the room round out around the edges, the bright flickers less foreboding and more comforting then when he’d first set foot in here.

Once he’s sure Crowley won’t discorporate on him, Aziraphale moves once more, maneuvers Crowley’s weight as he rises from the floor with an armful of unconscious Demon and turns to leave.

The fire in the hearth steadily dies down and then miraculously, stops completely.

Behind the door of their shared bedroom, Aziraphale delicately lays Crowley’s long body back into the space beside him. He de-robes and moves their bodies together until the Demon’s head is resting against his bare chest.

It’s an awful thing, really, what Crowley has gone through. The fear and anxiety quelled for now but still there just beneath the cool exterior the Demon exudes. What Aziraphale would do to erase it all and put in its place acceptance and understanding. The words twisted around them both like sharp thorns of a beautiful rose, ready to strike and keep back anything the world tried to throw to assist them. Suffering for so long, alone, had torn and tattered their souls—the consequences of which they were still unfortunately uncovering as tonight proved— but hopefully the light of day would keep the darkness at bay.

Aziraphale doesn’t necessarily need to sleep, seeing as he’s an immortal being, and he’s infinitely grateful for this. Because as the sun starts to break the last bit of early morning away, so too does Crowley stir.

He murmurs something—it’s soft and sweet and Aziraphale knows that if he were to comment on this, it would cause Crowley to burrow away from him—and the air from him tickles the hairs of Aziraphale’s chest.

“Rest, my dear,” Aziraphale begins as Crowley sluggishly picks his head up ever so slightly to peer up at him with molten pools of honey, “I will be here with you”.

“You? Staying in bed?”, and then he rubs his stubbled chin against the soft flesh he finds there, “must be some sort of miracle”.

Aziraphale grumbles softly, earning him another gush of breath from the Demon and then his breathing slows as awareness slips from him.

“A miracle? No,” Aziraphale whispers to the quiet of the room, “my place is to always be beside you. It was simply, _meant_ to be, my love”.

There will be moments, not as intense, but just as frightening as the one Crowley’s experienced. Because Aziraphale too, it seems, is not immune to the trials and tribulations that have carved themselves into the very fabric of their being. Every time, it makes them feel a little more human, and every time it becomes less consuming and more manageable. Where once they had suddenly lost themselves in the pretenses, they had constructed for themselves in order to survive, were starting to crack and crumble away.

And one day soon, their healing would begin to fill their once shattered souls and together, they’d find themselves feeling something entirely foreign but welcomed.

They would feel whole, secure, and loved.


End file.
